Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
If there was one thing that Ellie hated in this world, it was a dance.
Not a single dance, of course, but the occasion of a dance. Or a ball, if one was formal enough to call it such.
It was a battlefield fraught with traps and unseen holes and hidden weapons and enemies that look like friends, dressed up in the guise of social occasion with complicated footwork.
The physical act of dancing was the easiest part of an evening outing to a ball or its simpler designations.
Ellie could manage the coordination involved, the timing to music, the movements between other couples, and polite conversation with her partner.
It was the rest of the evening that she hated most of all.
No one was ever as they seemed during these social occasions.
There were things said that were not as they seemed.
Everyone was polite to avoid being seen as anything less, but polite did not hide cutting remarks or awkwardness or intention.
It did not protect those who were socially insecure or uncertain, and was ruthless to those who did not fit into previously defined constraints.
Ellie had learned that there were very simple delineations for anyone in attendance at balls or dances.
Older women were either gossiping, scheming, or desperate for anyone to talk to.
Younger women were escaping their mothers, looking for husbands, or taking their supposedly rightful place in the social hierarchy as new wives.
Men were there to game, talk business, find a wife, satisfy their mothers, or exchange social currency for reputational purposes.
Those hosting such evenings were showing off their status, trying to maintain connections, or insisting on celebrating something with people who would not care appropriately.
There was one other group that was always at such evenings that were less easily defined: the misfits. The shy wallflowers, the superior snobs, the opinionated radicals, the status shifters, and the independent thinkers.
Ellie was squarely in that final camp. She went to dances because it was one of the rare forms of entertainment permitted to ladies, and because the physical exertion involved was good for her body.
She had no social graces, no sense of fashion, and no patience for banal conversations.
She might occasionally use dances and suppers as opportunities to further her plans, as she had done when searching for a husband who would leave her alone and let her live in the country, but those were not typical.
Now she was going to have to attend the dance in Fencrest Village simply because the new Lord Bickham would be there and it was her duty to introduce him.
Not actually introduce him, as this was a village occasion and not a private one, but be there to show her support. By being in attendance.
Because her absence would raise questions.
No one had told her this, of course. It was just something she knew. An innate knowledge brought to her by a lifetime of observing people and their tendency to make assumptions where there was only a gap in their expectations.
Maddening sheep.
Which, actually, was an insult to sheep, who were delightful creatures.
She fussed at the bodice of her dress, which was at least three seasons out of fashion, since she’d not had a new dress since she’d come to Fenmore.
She was feeling even more awkward than she normally did.
People were going to be talking about how attractive and appealing Lord Bickham was, and they were going to look at her with some sort of opinion.
She had been engaged to the previous Lord Bickham, after all.
She was the dowager Lady Bickham, and nobody knew.
There was nothing for her to get as a dower, so her status, such as it was, had no significance at all.
Other than, perhaps, some fleeting increase in respect due to being a dowager baroness.
It wouldn’t matter to her, but it was something that could not be ignored.
Ridiculous.
But here she was, as Miss Elena Williams, or Miss Ellie, standing just inside the door to the Thorne Assembly Rooms in Fencrest, trying to drum up enough courage to go up the stairs to the dancing.
To endure whatever the evening would hold.
To support the man who had done nothing to support her.
“I am a good person,” she whispered to herself in encouragement. “I am a good person. I am a good person.”
“Does it count as truth if you say it to yourself?” a drawling but polite voice asked from behind her.
Ellie jumped in surprise, one hand going to her throat. West’s insufferable cousin Fred leaned in the doorway to the taproom on the ground floor, watching her with his token smirk.
She hadn’t known him for long, but every time she saw him, he was smirking. Or mocking someone or something.
And she was not in the mood to be mocked.
“It is meant to be motivation,” she muttered, despite the fact that she did not need to defend herself to this man.
“For what?” he asked her.
Ellie nudged her head towards the stairs. “To go up there and show my support for the new Lord Bickham.”
“Does he need your support?”
She frowned, not because it was a rude question, but because it sounded truly curious, if not concerned. That did not make sense with what she knew of this man.
Fred, or whatever his name was, was the sort of emotionally fluid and vibrant soul who was as without guile as he was without restraint.
But he was also reckless, sarcastic, and the epitome of a follower, even at his own risk.
So when West had decided she was the enemy, or a particularly unwelcome rodent, Fred had treated her the same.
Sort of. When their paths crossed.
Which she had been taking measures to avoid.
But here and now, he asked the question with an innocence she wasn’t prepared for. Was this honesty or an act?
If it was honesty, she owed him the same. If it was an act . . .
She wouldn’t know until much later, at which time, her honesty would only serve her well.
Honesty, it was.
“Yes,” she told him frankly. “He does. The title hasn’t been one of respect since his lordship’s father held it, and it has been just long enough that almost no one remembers that.
They know me and trust me, since I’m the only good thing Fenmore has seen in years.
If I approve of the heir, they will be more inclined to trust him eventually. ”
One of Fred’s dark brows rose. “Eventually?”
Ellie bit back a smile and lifted a shoulder in a light shrug. “They have to tolerate him before they can trust him. They might try if I am supportive.”
He began to nod slowly, understanding showing on his features, but nothing harsh or critical of her. Nothing sneering or cold.
Odd. She would have thought him more like his cousin in that regard. But Fred—this side of him—was far more open and clear than she’d seen yet.
And he was listening.
“And you have to be a good person to do this supportive act that will get the people to be more inclined to tolerate him?” he pressed, his eyes narrowing slightly.
She did not bother to restrain her snort. “Don’t you think so? After how he’s treated me?”
Fred surprised her by nodding again, very firmly. “Oh yes. And especially since he can’t get rid of you, what with the dower house being gone.”
Ah, so he’d told Fred about the alternative lodgings being out of the question? Lovely.
Ellie let herself grin. “Who’d have thought that decision would be so beneficial to me on a personal level?”
Fred grinned right back at her. “At the risk of insulting you, would you allow me a dance with you this evening, Miss Elena?”
“Only if it is not a quadrille or a waltz,” she quipped. “I’ve always found those two dances the best opportunity to seize drinks without getting caught in inconvenient conversations or jostled in a crowd.”
“Perfect. Neither of those, then. And if you need a secondary aim to showing support for my cousin, I would not mind a pretty and agreeable wife.” His grin became excessively wide and bright, like one seen on an eager little boy begging for sweets.
Ellie laughed and started up the stairs, Fred beside her. “Agreeable or biddable?”
He grimaced and shuddered with perfect dramatic effect. “Not biddable. I am attracted to a bit of fight in a woman.” He glanced over at her quickly, his smirk back in place. “Not as much as you, though. No offense.”
“None taken,” she laughed. “And I am so glad you don’t want biddable. What most men mean by biddable is stupid and obliging. They just have enough manners not to say so.”
“I apologize on behalf of the male species.”
“Don’t say that too loudly. They may come after you for taking up an apology they did not intend.” She paused as they reached the top of the stairs and hesitated before entering the dance rooms. “I don’t want to do this.”
Fred sniffed a soft laugh. “Support him? Or go to the dance?”
Ellie offered him a small wave. “I don’t mind supporting him. Not really. It will be better for the estate in the future. No, I don’t want to go to the dance. Dancing itself is a fine enough activity, but the rest . . .” She made a face. “I don’t like people enough to be here.”
“You and West both,” Fred said as he offered her a polite arm without encouragement or scolding, which she took.
“He was dragged here like a spoiled child because it would be good for the estate. Otherwise, he would never have come to this. Nothing, and I do mean almost any other motivation, would have convinced him.”
“Not even a bride?” Ellie asked as he led her into the room.
Fred looked as though he might laugh. “I haven’t the faintest idea.
He hasn’t ever mentioned a wife, nor tried to court anyone seriously.
Not one notion as to the type of woman who would even strike his fancy.
Well, maybe a couple of notions.” He smiled very slightly, but didn’t tell her why.
“He’ll want a wife someday, for an heir if nothing else. ”